


The Lavender Code

by la_muerta



Series: Like Smoke Through Your Fingers [2]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Noir, Case Fic, Detective Alec Lightwood, Detective Noir, F/M, M/M, POV First Person, Period-Typical Homophobia, Private Investigators, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-11 04:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11706603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_muerta/pseuds/la_muerta
Summary: "So you're a private detective," she said. "I didn't know they really existed, except in books. Or else they were greasy little men snooping around hotels."I didn't have much to say to that, so I let that drift."Tall, aren't you?" she said."I didn't mean to be.""Handsome too," she said. "And I bet you know it."I grunted."What's your name?""Lightwood," I said. "Alec Lightwood."***Alec Lightwood is a young, honest private detective hired by Camille Belcourt to investigate her fiancé, who she suspects is hiding something scandalous from her. What starts out as a simple case turns out to be a lot more complicated than Alec bargained for, and when the death toll starts to rise, Alec finds his own life in increasing jeopardy.[Translation in Russian (done by the lovelyAngel__METAL__Devil) availablehere.]





	1. Chapter 1

 

It was raining again. Izzy was going to give me hell for turning up at a client's house damp, but what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. I seldom saw her these days, anyway, not since she had up and gotten married to that Meliorn guy. It was a pity I'd actually tried to make an effort with my clothes today. This was something Izzy had picked out for me once before - I was wearing my grey suit, with the one shirt I had that was actually still white, black tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, and black wool socks. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, which was more than could be said for most private detectives.

You can't make much money at this trade, if you're honest - and I was, unfortunately, honest to a fault. Mostly, I spent a lot of time looking for people's lost pets and trailing cheating spouses to seedy motels. It wasn't glamorous, but it paid the bills, most of the time. Today, though - someone had called around the coppers looking for someone discrete, and somehow it had landed in my lap.

I squinted at the rain and tried not to hunch my shoulders against the deluge as I got out of my car. I had been hoping to make an impression, and it looked like I would most certainly be making a very damp impression on the carpet.

The Belcourt place was not so much a house as a mansion, a sprawling two-storey building surrounded by neatly trimmed hedges. Perfectly proper, and respectable. The old man had died the year before, his wife long gone in childbirth, and now all four million dollars of his estate belonged to his only heir - his daughter, Camille Belcourt. I wasn't quite sure what the old man had made his business in, but I had heard that part of it was in trade with the Far East. His wife had certainly been of Asian descent. 

The front doors were opulent, beautiful shining wood with intricate stained-glass inserts. The butler, a sallow-faced man named Archer let me in, his nose turned up as if I was something the cat had dragged in. I took a perverse pleasure watching him fight the urge to hold my sopping-wet coat at arm's length. While he was gone, I took the opportunity to survey the interior of the house.  

The main hallway was covered with expensive rose carpet, and heavy teak chairs with uncomfortable-looking cushions were arranged as a sort of sitting area in front of an ornate fireplace. There was even a piano in one corner, although I couldn't have said what it was for, since the chairs looked like they had never been sat on - perhaps the Belcourts liked to give the impression that they actually had friends that would come around for music and merriment. Above the fireplace, there was a portrait of a serious looking man with piercing dark eyes, who must surely have been Mr Belcourt. All around, I could see the evidences of Mr Belcourt's travels: an elaborate wooden carving of some pagan fertility idol, a delicate scroll painting hanging on the wall, done in varying shades of watery black China ink.

"Miss Belcourt will see you now," Archer said tonelessly, interrupting my inspection.

 

 

I was led to what I assumed might be the lady's equivalent of a den, or leisure room. It was a big room, with a good view of both the back gardens and the driveway in front. The whole room was done in shades of white and ivory, and perhaps it was the way the light had been filtered through the dreary late morning rain, but all the shades of white and ivory seemed ever-so-slightly mismatched with each other, and it set my teeth on edge. The room had wall-to-wall white carpets and the windows had heavy ivory drapes - the white made the ivory look dirty and the ivory made the white look bled out.

I sat down on the edge of a deep soft chair and looked at Miss Belcourt. One look at her and I knew she was trouble. She was wearing a deep red dress, and was stretched out on a modernistic chaise longue with her slippers off, wearing the sheerest silk stockings. She seemed to have arranged her legs to be stared at - they were visible to the knee and one of them well beyond. She had some jewellery on, tasteful pieces that drew attention to the curve of her collar bone and the delicate line of her wrists and arms, but what stood out most was the ring on her right hand, a heavy silver piece set with a large blood-red Burmese ruby. She was not a tall woman, petite and with her chin tilted to look deceptively coy. Her head was against an ivory satin cushion, her black hair flowing over it in soft waves, and she had the same hot black eyes of the portrait in the hall. There was a sulky droop to her lips and the lower lip was full. It was times like these that I was thankfully that I had absolutely no interest in women like her.  

She had a drink in her hand. She took a swallow from it and gave me a cool level stare over the rim of the glass.

"So you're a private detective," she said. "I didn't know they really existed, except in books. Or else they were greasy little men snooping around hotels."

I didn't have much to say to that, so I let that drift.

"Tall, aren't you?" she said.

"I didn't mean to be." 

"Handsome too," she said. "And I bet you know it."

I grunted.

"What's your name?"

"Lightwood," I said. "Alec Lightwood."

"Well, you sure aren't a gusher. Tell me about yourself, Mr Lightwood. I suppose I have a right to ask that, at least?"

"Sure, but there's very little to tell. I'm twenty-three years old, went to college once. I worked for Mrs Penhallow, the District Attorney, as an investigator once. Her chief investigator, a man named Luke Garroway, called me and told me you wanted to see me."

"No wife?"

"No, ma'm."

"Why not?"

"I hardly need a wife, when I have clients like you doing such a good job of minding my business and nagging at me as if you're actually my missus."

She flushed. "I don't see what there is to be cagey about," she snapped. "And I don't like your manners."

"I'm not crazy about yours either," I said. "I didn't ask to see you, you sent for me. I don't mind that you're drinking your lunch out of a Scotch bottle. I don't mind your showing me your legs. I don't mind if you don't like my manners. But my business is mine, so don't waste your time trying to cross-examine me."

She slammed her glass down so hard that it slopped over on an ivory cushion. She swung her legs to the floor and almost seemed like she was going to stand up, then thought better of it. Her knuckles were white. 

"People don't talk like that to me," she said.

"Would do you a world of good if more people did." 

I was sick of looking for overfed poodles and yapping toy dogs, and sick of the sad love stories and cheating, broken, frivolous relationships that came to me every other day. But perhaps I wasn't sick of them enough to want to put up with the likes of Camille Belcourt. 

She gathered herself quickly - sinking back into the chaise lounge as if she had meant to bolt upright abruptly all along, and the only reminder of her losing her temper like a spoiled child was the dash of spilled liquor. 

"My God, you big dark handsome brute! I ought to throw a Buick at you."

I shrugged and waited for her to get to the point.

"I am engaged to be married," she announced. Well, that explained the ring, but it didn't explain her behaviour. 

"Congratulations," I replied dryly.

"My fiancé is a businessman, like my father. He keeps odd hours, and travels often. Lately though, he seems involved in something else, something secret."

"God forbid that a husband should have any secrets from his wife," I murmured. 

She ignored me. "He is not... what one might call conventional. It is a quirk that I do my best to bear with. But lately, an acquaintance of mine swears she saw him go into a club with somewhat of a reputation, and then he started missing his appointments with me, claiming that he had a childhood friend who had recently moved to New York, and he wanted to help him settle down." 

"That does not seem unreasonable," I said, trying not to add that with a fiancée like her, I wouldn't blame a man for finding the company of his friends more appealing. I had known her for less than an hour, and I already found her tiring. 

"The club that he was seen entering," she said with the air of someone dropping a bombshell, "was the Black Cat Bar on Third Avenue."

That changed things alright. The Black Cat Bar was a classy joint in a classy hotel, with a dress code to boot. It was a men's bar, but it catered to a selected clientele - it was a gay men's bar. Suddenly, Camille Belcourt's line of questioning when I had first come in made a lot more sense. Was this why this case had somehow landed in my lap? For the first time since I had stepped into the Belcourt house, I felt nervous, and it was not a feeling I wanted to be showing around a shark like Miss Belcourt. 

"I'm sure you understand my concerns," she continued. "He would take over Daddy's business when we get married, and I wouldn't want to let Daddy down by having his business crumble around my ears just because I went and got married to the wrong man, would I?"

"I'm afraid I don't quite catch your drift, Miss Belcourt," I said evenly, deciding to play dumb. "So your fiancé enjoys a bit of drink and roulette. That's hardly the sort of thing to bring a business empire down."

She shot me an unreadable look, then laughed, a sharp, mocking sound. "Oh, Mr Lightwood, and here I was thinking someone in your line of business should know more about the world. Surely you've heard of the Black Cat Bar?"

"I'm afraid I haven't, ma'm."

"It caters to degenerates," she said gleefully, as if she was hoping that I would be shocked and scandalised by this revelation. "Let me be square with you - I'm worried that my fiancé might be a sexual psychopath," she said with a conspiratorial air.  

I tried not to clench my jaw. "You mean you suspect that your fiancé is a homosexual."

"That's what I said the first time," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "I didn't want to believe it, because my fiancé is _rather_ accomplished in the bedroom. But then I spotted this when I was at his townhouse - see what you make of this, Mr Lightwood."

She offered me an envelope, but held close to her body so that I had to stand up and walk over to take it from her. I frowned, noting the lack of a postmark. Was she going through her fiancé's personal correspondence? This dame was a real piece of work. I removed the letter inside and scanned it quickly - it was handwritten in a sloppy, hard hand, obviously written by a man, but on first glance it was complete gibberish. It wasn't hard to figure out that this was a secret message, written in code. A letter from a lover? Camille Belcourt certainly seemed to think so. 

"How about it, Mr Lightwood? Would a case like this be worth your time?" she drawled, taking another sip of her drink.

"I could look into it and set your mind at ease," I said, keeping my poker-face on. 

"What are your charges?"

"Twenty-five a day and expenses."

"I see. It seems reasonable enough for removing morbid growths from other people's backs. I hope you realise this has to be quite a delicate operation - our engagement is public knowledge in our circles, you see. You'll make your operation as little of a shock to the patient as possible?"

"I shall do my best, Miss Belcourt," I answered gravely.

I have said before that I'm honest to a fault, and I'm certainly not the double-crossing sort. I didn't know this man, but I suddenly felt that I had a duty to let him know exactly what kind of woman he was marrying - and whether or not he was actually gay and using the marriage as a cover was none of my business. He could do whatever he pleased with the information, as long as I did right by my conscience.

"You can call me Camille," she offered with a sly smile. 

"Yes, Miss Belcourt." 

She narrowed her eyes at me, clearly unamused. "Get out of here, Lightwood."

"Sure. After you tell me your fiancé's name," I answered easily.

"Bane," she replied. "His name is Magnus Bane."

 

 

I went out, down the tile staircase to the hall, and the butler drifted out of somewhere with my coat in his hand. I put it on while he opened the door for me.

"In the matter of money, Miss Belcourt has instructed me to give you a cheque for whatever seems desirable," he told me haughtily.

This gave me pause. "No, no money for now. You write Miss Belcourt's cheques?"  

Archer's pale green eyes frosted. "Are you attempting to tell me my duties, sir?"

"No. But I'm having a lot of fun trying to guess what they are." 

We stared at each other for a moment. He gave me a sullen glare and turned away, shutting the door in my face.

It was still raining as I hurried down the steps back to my car. I took one last backward glance at the large house and its rigidly-trimmed hedges. An ivory curtain on the second storey of the house twitched shut.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I wrote that bit about "I knew she was trouble", I started giggling so hard I couldn't write anything else for a few minutes XD Well, the cliched lines are part of the trope, yes? I've borrowed a few lines from Raymond Chandler's "The Big Sleep" for this chapter because it's such a definitive work for this genre.
> 
> If you're new to this fic, it's an expansion of [this one-shot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11349255), and was inspired by a conversation between Matthew Daddario and Harry Shum Jr at THOS Con 2017. I'll warn you first that if you go looking for that panel, there'll be spoilers for this series. But that's not very important.
> 
> I did some research for this piece, because the 1950s were a tumultuous time for the LGBTQ community, but I apologise if I missed anything out.
> 
> **Additional history notes:**  
>  \- There actually was a "sexual psychopath law" passed in 1954 which allowed arrests under "criminal propensities toward the commission of sex offenses". Thirty-three gay men were charged under this law, despite having done nothing other than love someone of the same sex.  
> \- The Black Cat Bar did exist as a gay bar in the 1950s, but it was located in San Francisco. It has been relocated to New York for the purposes of this fic.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

The rain had stopped by seven. A thin film of it sloshed out from the over-flooded gutters and onto the sidewalk and seeped in through the seams of my leather shoes as I walked up the steps of the hotel. I smoothed down the lapels of my dove grey dinner jacket nervously. This was honestly the nicest suit I had ever owned, and it was only mine courtesy of one Camille Belcourt. The valet had already driven my beat-up grey Sedan away, so there was no backing out now. I squared my shoulders and strolled into the main lobby of the hotel like I knew what I was doing. 

The irony was, despite my... proclivities, I had never tried to seek out others of my persuasion. There was always the risk of someone seeing me, and in this line you learn fast that people have a bad habit of paying attention to you whenever you happen to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. But today, I was on a case, going undercover - I had the perfect excuse to be here. What were the chances of something like this happening again? It was as close as I got to the Fates smiling down on me.  

As it turns out, the only time Fate ever sends a smile my way is when she has a foot sticking out to trip me.  

There was a small narrow entryway to the club where one could leave their coats and hats. When I stepped in, the hatcheck girl looked up from her seat, obviously bored to tears. She had a sharp intelligent face, shiny black hair and clear almond-shaped eyes. The tag on her shirt said her name was "Dolly", and she had a cheap cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth. She looked me up and down.

"No tie, no entry," she drawled. She had one of those New York accents, brassy and big, like a blinking neon sign.

I frowned - I had a necktie on. She caught my look and rolled her eyes. "Not that sort of tie, sugar. A bow tie. You don't wear a dinner jacket with a necktie."

"Oh." Izzy would have known this sort of thing.  

"Yes, 'oh'." She reached under her desk and brought out a black bow tie. It was a beat-up old thing, limp and resembling a rotten banana peel. It would look like hell. They must keep it for the new bastards like me so they could pick us out of the crowd like fish in a barrel.  

She watched me fumble with the bow tie for a few minutes, then took pity on me and got up slowly from her side of the desk to snatch the offending scrap of cloth from my hands. She did it up deftly, efficiently, impersonally - like I was a parcel due for the mailman. I supposed she knew better than to waste her charms on the men that came to the Black Cat Bar.

She was such a refreshing change after all the girls who batted their eyelashes and flirted with every man who passed, or who wouldn't meet your eyes when you talked to them. I rather liked her. I gave her a tip I couldn't afford, but Miss Belcourt certainly could, and that bought me a sardonic grin.

"Have a nice evening," she said as she waved me in.

 

Despite the dress code and the location, I had expected a dimly-lit sort of outfit, stinking of cheap liquor and even cheaper cigarettes, with plenty of dark corners for dark deeds. Instead, I found myself in a beautiful room brightly lit by expensive crystal chandeliers. It was a bit worn around the edges by age - the rose-damask panels a little faded perhaps, and the drapes a little dusty - but it was still beautiful. The floor was covered with a thick heavy carpet that must have cost plenty. There was a bar at one end of the room, and there were comfortable armchairs and tables set up all around. A little yellow-sashed Mexican orchestra was playing a low-voiced, prettied-up rhumba that nobody was dancing to.

The men in the room were sitting around with drinks in their hands, smoking and laughing and talking, and some were playing a casual game of cards. It could have been somebody's living room. The normalcy of it was like a punch to the gut - was that all there was to it? Could it ever really be this easy, this simple?

I made my way to the bar and ordered a rum. I didn't actually drink, but it would give me something to do without sticking out like a sore thumb, and barmen always knew things. I was here tonight because Magnus Bane had cancelled his dinner date with Miss Belcourt again, claiming that he had a business meeting, but there was no guarantee it was because he had decided to come here instead. He could show up tonight, or not; it might take me a week of waiting to even catch a glimpse of him, or he might only come on nights when he didn't actually have an appointment with Miss Belcourt. 

"Should I gentle up that bacardi or do you like it the way it is?" the bartender asked me.

"I like it the way it is as well as I like it at all," I said. 

"Me, I'd just as leave drink croup medicine," he grunted. I couldn't disagree. 

"Looking for someone?" he asked me, his eyes flicking to the sorry excuse of a bow tie at my collar. 

"No, I don't think so," I said, twirling my glass around. It wouldn't do to have word get around that a new guy was on the look out for Magnus Bane. I didn't want to spook my quarry. I forced myself to relax, to hold myself less rigidly. Respectable establishments like this one often had strict rules against effeminate behaviour, but I told myself that just a little softness in my gestures would help my cover.

"So, you must know a lot of the people here this evening. Anybody interesting?" I asked casually.

"Funny you should ask - see that man there with the curly brown hair and the white suit?" the bartender indicated a table in the corner of the room where a group of men seemed to be in serious discussion. "That there is Harry Hay." 

"Who?"

"Founder of the Mattachine Society in Los Angeles, pal. Haven't you heard of them?" 

"Not really, no."

"They're all about equal rights for homosexuals. Word is he's looking to form a chapter here in New York."

I look a closer look at the people at the table then. There were half a dozen of them, all dressed to the nines in the latest fashion - all except one.

Before this, I would never have thought to describe a man as "beautiful", but there was no other word for him. He had eschewed the dress code completely and was wearing a dark-coloured silk shirt with a high mandarin collar and blue geometric accents that gleamed in the light when he moved, a stark spot of darkness amidst his companions in white. But he wasn't hidden in their shadow - no, far from it. He was speaking animatedly about something, gesturing with hands heavily adorned with rings. Make-up was not allowed in the Black Cat Bar, but he didn't seem to care much about rules - his eyes were lightly kohled and his nails were silvered, which added to his air of exoticism. 

Miss Belcourt had only showed me one photo of Magnus Bane, but the flat black-and-white print had not done him justice. I saw now what Miss Belcourt had meant when she said that her fiancé wasn't exactly conventional. That reminded me that this man was engaged to be married to Camille Belcourt, and the thought left a sour taste in my mouth. 

I had been staring for too long - I had made the unforgivable professional mistake of being caught at it by my target. He winked at me from across the room, and I cursed my own constitution when I felt my cheeks flush.

"Be careful there, pal," the bartender said softly. I looked at him in surprise - he really was a very perceptive man. I had not counted on him noticing me watching my quarry. "He's a married man - or as good as is." 

I feigned surprise. "He is?"

"He is rich, and has his connections in this city. He's interested in what they're saying about equal rights for all," the bartender said carefully. 

"A noble cause," I murmured. Did this mean, then, that Magnus Bane wasn't a homosexual? "Do you know him then?" 

"I am new to this city. He got me this job," he shrugged. "We were friends, in a way, when we were children." 

I nodded, careful to keep my face neutral. I hadn't counted on finding Magnus Bane's mysterious childhood friend this easily. "You say he is a rich man. Does he not have a business where he could use your talents?" 

The bartender gave me a sardonic smile. "I prefer not to be indebted to him too much. Him and me, we have different ideas about a lot of things."

"Telling tales about me, Raphael?" said a lilting, teasing voice from behind me. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

"Heaven forbid," the bartender smirked. "The usual?"

"Thank you, my friend," Magnus nodded, and smiled at me. "I don't think we've been introduced. I'm Magnus Bane."

"Lightwood," I replied, shaking the proffered hand.

"And do you have a first name, Mr Lightwood?" he asked teasingly.

"Alec," I replied, my tongue thick and clumsy in my mouth. "Alexander."

"Well, Alexander, this must be your first time at the Black Cat. I think I'd remember a face like yours if you'd been around," Magnus said with a coy smile that made my insides tangle up in knots.  

"Must you flirt with every person you meet?" Raphael said disapprovingly as he came back with Magnus' drink. 

"Only the ones in skirts... and the ones in trousers," Magnus replied with a wink at me.

"Doesn't it bother you at all, that you're about to be married?" I frowned. 

"Ah, so Raphael _has_ been telling tales. What I want to know is - does it bother _you_?" he asked, with his coy little smile that was slowly but surely driving me to madness.

Raphael frowned at Magnus. 

"Oh, don't pout so, Raphael - God knows Camille isn't above throwing herself at any tall, dark and handsome man that walks by. It's just our way, Camille and I. We have an understanding - neither of us mean anything by it. I'm a one soul at a time kind of man, I'm afraid."

He spoke of her with such adoration and fondness, the smallest smile lighting his eyes when he said her name, I had no doubt that he truly loved her. I had come to warn this man about Miss Belcourt, but it seemed cruel to break his heart. Or maybe he knew exactly the sort of woman she was, and what he was getting himself into, but he didn't care. Some times when a guy got dizzy with a dame, that was just the way things were. Tomorrow I'd go out to the Belcourt house and tell Miss Belcourt that her man was just a kind fellow with a generous heart, and that his only fault was that he thought the world ought to be a better place, and that would be the end of it. I hoped they would be very happy together.

I made my excuses, much to the disappointment of Magnus, and left the Bar. I returned the horrid bow tie, got my hat and coat from the check girl, Dolly, and went out on the porch. The doorman loitering outside asked: "Can I get your car for you, sir?"

I said: "I'm just going for a walk."

The fog was rolling in thick off Harlem River. I wandered aimlessly down the tree-lined streets for a while, just concentrating on the sound of my rubber heels slithering on the sidewalk. I must have looked a damned sight, all dressed up in my ridiculous fancy dinner jacket. By the time I had gathered myself enough to go back for my car, I was half damp and shivering from the fog. If I were the drinking sort, I'd get myself a pint of rye and let it help me put down all the emotions that meeting Magnus Bane had brought to the surface.

Speak of the devil - a tall graceful figure in a black peacoat was walking down the stairs of the hotel. I considered ducking behind one of the trees along the street when a pale Cadillac came out of the fog like a ghost, swerving dangerously like the driver had downed a few pints too many and was out on the roof. I was running towards Magnus before I could even think better of it, and not a moment too soon - I had only just grabbed hold of his arms and pulled him to safety when the car rammed into the steps he had been standing on only seconds before. 

"Alexander," he breathed in surprise as he looked up at me. I let him go gently, suddenly aware that I was still holding him in my arms.

"Are you alright?" I asked him.

He nodded, face pale, but was already turning towards the hissing wreck of the car. For someone who had nearly been run down, he was surprisingly collected.

The driver of the cream Cadillac was dead. But here's the kicker - from the looks of it, half of his head had been blown off at close range long before the car had come crashing out of the fog at Magnus. 

"That's an interesting conundrum," I said. 

"Yes, interesting. Especially since this was my car, and that is my chauffeur Elias at the wheel," Magnus murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I might not be able to post the next chapter so soon, but I'm getting so caught up in this plot! XD
> 
> **Additional history notes:**  
>  \- The Mattachine Society, founded in 1950, was one of the earliest gay rights organisations in the United States. It was founded by Harry Hay, and I think it's still in existence today.


	3. Chapter 3

 

I went to the Belcourt house bright and early the next morning. I hadn't had a wink of sleep all night, and not for lack of trying. Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was that Cadillac coming out of the fog, and Magnus' warm brown eyes looking up at me. I'd given up trying to sleep just before dawn to try and puzzle out the cipher in Magnus' mystery letter, but it was an impossible task when my brain was so addled.

It was probably nothing, anyway. Logically, this all had something to do with Harry Hay and that equal rights club he was going on about. People didn't like change, even if it didn't do anything to them. There'd be plenty of people in this city ready to bump the lot of them off in a heartbeat, and maybe they didn't mind bumping off the poor sod who had been driving Magnus' car while they were at it. They were having secret meetings in a gay club - surely that warranted a coded letter or two. All the loose ends could be easily tied up and handed to the happy couple as an early wedding present, and then I would be out of their hair. I had almost managed to convince myself of it too, by the time I was standing on the front porch of the Belcourt house ringing the doorbell. 

It had been three days since I had last stood on these steps. It felt like a year.

Archer let me in with his usual sourpuss face but didn't bring me to the leisure room, as I had been expecting. Instead, he led me to what I immediately realised was Camille Belcourt's bedroom. Archer didn't seem to find it unusual that the lady of the house was entertaining guests while still in bed and wearing nothing but a saccharine pink silk dressing gown that she might have pulled on just before I entered the room. The ruby ring on her finger winked mockingly at me.

"Mr Lightwood. To what do I owe the pleasure?" she purred. 

I kept my eyes on her face, pointedly not looking elsewhere. "It's about your fiancé. I met him in the Black Cat Bar last night. He's lending his support to an equal rights group for homosexuals - nothing nefarious."

"Well, that's a relief," she smiled, but it didn't touch her eyes. "He always was a bleeding heart, my Magnus."

I placed Magnus' coded letter on the vanity table. "I'll be sending you the bill. Been a pleasure doing business with you, Miss Belcourt," I nodded curtly, already turning to leave. 

"Leaving so soon? But you've just got here!"

It was nine in the morning. Was she already drunk? I glanced at the bar cart near the window, and saw two glasses of whiskey, half-drunk. Was Magnus in the house? Had he stayed overnight after his traumatic evening, seeking comfort with his lady love? I didn't think I could bear to see him here with her. 

I reached for the door, suddenly desperate to leave, but before I could turn the handle, I heard Archer's voice speaking in the hallway, saying "Wait, Mr Bane!" and Magnus Bane swept into the room, a whirlwind of black silk and expensive cashmere scarves.

"Magnus! What a lovely surprise. This is Mr Lightwood. He was just leaving," Camille said, her body loose with drink.  

"Yes, we've met," Magnus said, and I tried not to flinch at the iciness in his tone. "Why is he here?"

"Oh, this and that," she said airily. "It's nothing to do with you, Magnus. Not everything is." 

I saw Magnus take in her state of undress, then his eyes flickered to the two glasses of whiskey on the bar cart. I met his questioning gaze head-on. 

"I'm a private investigator," I told him. I had nothing to hide. "Miss Belcourt was worried that you were a homosexual, and that you were hiding it from her, but I assured her that she had nothing to worry about." 

Magnus' shoulders relaxed imperceptibly, but my confession threw Camille Belcourt into a fury. "What kind of a private investigator are you, spilling your client's secrets like that?" she hissed. "I'll make sure you never get another case in this city!"

"That's fine by me, ma'm," I told her. "I'm used to looking for lost poodles and snooping around hotels like the greasy little men you read about in books." 

"Go to hell, Lightwood," she fumed.

"I'm already on my way there," I nodded politely at her and Magnus, and left, glad to be clean of this whole business. 

  

I spent the rest of the day in my sorry excuse for an apartment. It wasn't much, but it was all I had in the way of a home. In it was everything that was mine and that meant anything to me: books, photographs, old letters, things like that. Before she had gotten married, Izzy had shared this space with me. I had grumbled at the time, but now the house felt empty without her overflowing wardrobe and the lingering smell of burnt cooking. I should call her soon, find out how she was doing. After all, she was the only living family I had left in this world. I told myself this twice a week, but I hadn't spoken to her in months. I spent the day tiding up everything, busying myself with menial things like laundry and the towering stack of dishes, and not thinking about anything else.

The next day, I went in to my office. I had a room on the fifth floor of an old office block, split in half to make a reception room in front. The listing in the building lobby had my name on it and nothing else. I usually left the door to the reception room unlocked, in case I had a client - which wasn't very often - and the client cared to sit down and wait.

I had a client.

He looked completely out of place sitting on my faded green settee, flipping through an old magazine that was at least a year out of date. I was suddenly aware that the curtains were in desperate need of laundering, and that the scratched up low table in front of the settee was listing to one side. He was wearing a deep red shirt embroidered with dancing gold dragons, his black peacoat resting neatly on the back of the settee because I didn't have a coat rack. He put the magazine aside and smiled when I came in the door.

"Mr Bane," I greeted him. 

"It's Magnus, please," he said. I nodded and unlocked the door to my office, holding it open for him.  

My office was in no better state than the reception room. The carpet hadn't been cleaned since I moved in, the filing cases in the corner were brown and flaking with rust, and the customer's side of the desk held three wobbly chairs I had gotten secondhand. The desk was standard enough - the usual blotter, pen set and telephone - and the swivel chair behind it squeaked. I collected my mail from the mail slot, mostly advertisements, and indicated that he should take a seat. 

"Whiskey?" I offered. I kept a bottle in the office for clients, even though I didn't drink. Some times it helped soothe a client's nerves. "It's probably not up to your usual standards though."

Magnus smiled. "There is no such thing as bad whiskey. There are only some whiskeys that aren't as good as others."

I shrugged, took out a pony glass from my desk drawer and filled it up for him.

"You don't put on much of a front," he observed conversationally.

"You can't make much money at this trade, if you're honest. If you have a front, you're making money, or expect to." 

"Oh - are you honest?" he teased over the rim of his glass.

"Painfully so," I answered with a small smile.

"This seems like an odd line of business for you, then. Why did you become a private detective?"

"I was a cop at first. Then I realised I was too proud to take money dishonestly, too ill-tempered to take another man's insolence without a fight, and too stupid to take orders without asking awkward questions."  

Magnus laughed, a hearty delighted sound. "You're frank and straightforward - I like that about you." 

"You'd be in the minority. Why did you come here?"

"See, like I said - straightforward," Magnus murmured to himself, taking a sip of his whiskey. "I want to hire you for a case."

"Is this about your driver? The one who was murdered?"

"There are a number of things, really, one of which of course being who murdered Elias and rigged the car to run me down."

"Aren't the police on the case?"

"Yes, but I don't trust them. As you've pointed out, rotten coppers are a dime a dozen."

"What do they have going on so far?"

"They said Elias probably brought some trouble on himself, got clipped while he was driving the car to pick me, and the car just happened to swerve into my direction."

"One hell of a coincidence," I muttered, and Magnus nodded in agreement. 

"The second thing I want you to look into concerns Raphael - I suspect he's in trouble, but he won't tell me what."

"Any clue what sort of trouble?" I asked, frowning. I had liked the bartender - he seemed like a good sort, and I liked to think I had a knack for reading people.

"He used to run with a tough crowd when he was a teenager. I suspect his past is catching up with him." 

"Fair enough. People make mistakes when they are young and dumb," I nodded. "Anything else?"

"I want you to investigate Camille."

So far everything else had been pretty clear-cut, but a lover's spat was another matter, especially when it was between Magnus and Camille. I prided myself on not getting personally involved in my cases, but it was too late for me, this time round. The sensible part of me wanted to get out and stay out of this whole business, but this was the part I never listened to. Because if I ever had, I would have taken over my father's business and married some girl my parents wanted me to marry, and then doomed me and that girl both to a lonely loveless life where the most scintillating conversation we would have was when we squabbled over how much money we didn't have. 

"Why do you want to investigate your fiancée?" I asked carefully.

"You must have noticed the two glasses of whiskey on her bar cart this morning," Magnus said a little ruefully. "This isn't the first sign I've noticed - that's why I burst into the room so suddenly when you were there."

"You think she's cheating on you?"

"I don't know what to think," Magnus admitted with a graceful little shrug and a downward twist to his mouth as he swirled his whiskey. "Why did she want you to investigate me?"

"Like I told you this morning - she said someone saw you go into the Black Cat Bar, and she was worried that you were homosexual. She said that if it were true, it might affect her father's business legacy."

"I can't believe it took someone this long to see me going in there, because I _own_ the Black Cat Bar," Magnus replied with a smirk. "But do me a favour, and please don't tell Raphael if you see him again. He gets so upset about these things." 

I nodded and cleared my throat. "Anyway I set her right this morning, and I told her you were just there for the meeting with Harry Hay." 

"It's kind of you to try and defend me, but she's not entirely wrong, and I wasn't meeting Harry Hay for purely selfless reasons," Magnus said slowly. "Have you ever heard of the term 'bisexual'?"

I shook my head and frowned.

"It means I like both men and women. You could say I fall in love with the soul before the sex, if you like," Magnus explained.

"Oh." My heart was pounding. I didn't know what to make of this new information.

"But that's water under the bridge now - I love Camille, and until recently, I was sure that she loved me back. I don't know what has changed, if it's just that she made a fool out of me, or if there is something more sinister going on." 

He looked so heartsick that I couldn't say no.

"Alright, I'll take the case," I said, already regretting it. "But on one condition - I want you to be square with me. Who was the person who sent you the letter written in cipher?" 

Magnus looked surprised. "How did you know about that?"

"Miss Belcourt found it among your belongings."

Magnus' face darkened at that. "I was wondering where it had gone. Well, the joke's on Camille - it's just a letter from Raphael. We used to write to each other in code, you see, when we were boys."

Of all the things that Magnus had told me this afternoon, this last bit of information didn't sit right with me. It wasn't an outright lie, but it wasn't the whole truth. Something in my gut told me there was more to it than childish boyhood nostalgia, and I had learnt early that it always paid to listen to that feeling.  

"So do we have a deal, Mr Lightwood?"

I pinned Magnus with a hard look, but Magnus simply smiled. 

"Deal," I agreed, despite my misgivings.


	4. Chapter 4

  

 

My first order of business the next day was to visit Chief Inspector Luke Garroway at the New York police precinct. I had to find out what exactly had happened with Magnus' driver Elias, and since Garroway was the one who had recommended me to Camille Belcourt, he might know more about the Belcourts. I wasn't stupid enough to trust a cop completely, but Garroway was as straight and narrow as you got these days - I had worked under him for a year before calling it quits. 

His office was on the same floor as the other men who worked for the D.A., and it wasn't a large office, but at least he had it to himself. There was nothing on his desk but a blotter, a cheap pen set, a cup of Joe, his hat, and one of his feet. His office had the musty smell of years of routine. 

"Lightwood," he nodded at me in greeting. "What can I do for you?"  

He was a large man, still in shape from years of doing actual legwork, and managed to have a friendly expression without really having any expression at all. It was a talent that I unfortunately did not possess. 

"You heard about the dead guy who tried to knock down someone in front of the The Plaza Hotel couple of days back?" 

"Who wants to know?" Garroway asked warily.

"Got a client."

"The Belcourt girl?" Garroway frowned. "What's this to do with her?"

"Not the Belcourt girl, that one didn't pan out," I told him.

Garroway raised an eyebrow, but swung around slowly in his swivel chair and shuffled through a filing cabinet behind him for a while, before pulling out a file.

"The dead guy in the car was chauffeur to a rich guy," he shrugged. "Head almost blown clean off at close range. Report says someone got the drop on him when he was out getting his employer's car, and the car just happened to swerve into the hotel steps."

"Sure it wasn't the invisible man who was sitting in the passenger's seat who turned that steering wheel?" I asked sarcastically.

"You know something about this business, Lightwood?"

"I was there when that car came out of the fog," I admitted readily. "The gun was fired from the passenger's side." 

Garroway scowled down at the report, then threw it onto his table in annoyance, almost knocking over his cup of coffee. "Report says the car wasn't tampered with. And it's probably scrap metal now." 

"Who filed that report?" 

"New boy called Rufus Hastings, but it hardly matters, does it? You and I both know how it is around here."

I shrugged. It had been a long shot anyway.

"I assume your client is the rich guy who was almost run down," Garroway said shrewdly. "How did you get involved?" 

"He's engaged to Miss Belcourt."

Garroway stared at me bleakly. "Didn't pin you as the double-crossing sort."

"Miss Belcourt and I didn't agree with each other, so we terminated our arrangement," I told him truthfully. "She hasn't paid me a cent of what she promised anyway, and I'm not inclined to chase her for it."

Garroway chuckled at that. "First rule of being a private detective, Lightwood - always ask for a retainer, and always deposit the retainer before the client changes his mind."

"I'll bear that in mind, Sir," I smiled. 

Garroway hummed. "Not sure you've picked the right side though, Lightwood. The Belcourts are not people you mess with. Do you know how they made their fortune?"

"I heard the late Mr Belcourt did trade with the Far East."

"That's a nice way of putting it," he snorted. "He was in the opium business at first, but it went out of fashion and they found another use for those damned poppy flowers."

"Heroin," I filled in, my mind whirling. I thought back to the last time I had seen Camille Belcourt, and the way her intoxication had seemed unusual even if she'd been drinking... If my suspicions were right, Magnus would want to hear about this as soon as possible. "You've given me a lot to think about, Sir. Thank you." 

Garroway nodded gravely, his eyes following me as I went to the door. "You know, Lightwood... You're smart. But try not to be too smart, you hear me?" Garroway said. 

"Then I'll try my best to be just smart enough," I replied, doffing my hat as I left. 

 

"Are you sure about this, Alexander?" Magnus frowned as he quickly got out of the car with me. His movements belied his worry - in the brief time I had known Magnus, I had never seen him like this - coiled into a ball of tension, like a bomb waiting to go off. "She gets bored easily, yes, but I don't believe Camille would do something like that." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. 

"Call it a hunch," I told him. "If her father had been in the business, it is possible that she had access or knew someone with access to the drugs, or it might even be someone's idea of revenge, trying to get her addicted."

We stood on the steps of the Belcourt house impatiently after ringing the doorbell, but Archer did not appear to let us in. With each passing moment, Magnus seemed to be getting more agitated, and I worried that he might do himself harm in his anger. With a violence I had not expected, Magnus wrapped his fist in his expensive scarf, and punched a hole through the decorative stained glass panel to get at the handle inside before I could stop him. 

The commotion must have woken Camille - I could hear her upstairs, shrieking shrilly for Archer. Magnus swept through the house like a hurricane, pushing his way into her bedroom.  

She was barely dressed again, and if possible, looking even worse than usual. It had only been a few days since I had last seen her, but her black hair looked limp and unkempt, her previously porcelain complexion now almost grey. Her movements were uncoordinated as she tried unsuccessful to get out of bed, sluggish and disorientated. 

"What is the meaning of this, Magnus? What's the useless mutt doing here?" Camille hissed when she spotted me. "Where is Archer?" 

"Tell me the truth, Camille - what have you been doing?"

"Nothing," she bared her teeth at him, and screamed when he grabbed hold of one arm to pull the sleeve of her dressing gown away. The marks on her pale skin were livid and fresh - signs of frequent injections with an unpracticed hand. 

"Have you lost your mind?" Magnus shouted, equal parts angry and heartbroken as she jerked her arm away and collected herself as best she could into her usual haughty air.

"Why must you always be so regrettably dull? You must let me have my little diversions, Magnus," she said, like a sulking child. 

"Otherwise?" 

"Otherwise I shall become extremely cross."

"I'd much rather you be cross at me, than watch you kill yourself like this," Magnus snarled. 

"You are being ridiculous," she said. "You are devoted to me; you have said so yourself. Your devotion will simply have to suffer my diversions, and then we shall rub along quite pleasantly. If not, I shall drop you. I cannot imagine you would want that."

"That’s just the drugs talking," Magnus said, his voice cracking ever-so-slightly. 

"Is it now?" Camille purred, composure regained now that she had the upper hand again. "The truth is, you bore me."

"He bored you so much, you hired a private investigator to find out why he was cancelling his appointments with you?" I cut in. "He bored you so much, you went snooping through his letters? It's either one thing or the other, Miss Belcourt."

Camille shot a venomous glare at me.

"Who is he, Camille?" Magnus asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Camille said sulkily. 

"You can drop the schoolgirl-act around me," Magnus said angrily. "I know you have someone else. Is he the person who has been giving you the drugs?"

Camille looked from Magnus to me, then staggered to the bar cart and began pouring out a generous measure of whiskey for herself with shaking hands. The liquor slopped all over the cart. "The both of you are brutes, utter brutes, for ganging up on a poor defenceless woman like this. Louis is ten times the gentleman you will ever be," she declared, taking a large gulp of her drink.

"Louis? You don't mean Louis Karnstein?" Magnus asked, his face a mask of shock.

"You know him?" Camille looked startled.

"He is my business rival, if you can call it that," Magnus said, his jaw clenched. "And I would hardly call him a gentleman, seeing how he has a bad habit of getting his goons to gift his rivals a pair of concrete shoes and a long dip in the Hudson."

Camille was shaking even harder now. She had her back turned towards us. "I met him at one of Daddy's dinner parties. He was the one who told me about you going to the Black Cat Bar. He said if we dug up enough dirt on you, I would have a good reason to leave you so I could be with him properly." 

"You would have destroyed me, destroyed everything I had worked for, all for another man?" Magnus asked. He didn't sound angry anymore, just resigned.

Camille stayed silent, the glass of whiskey trembling in her hands.

"You've been played for a fool, Camille," Magnus said, his voice full of regret. "And now you've made a fool of me too."

Camille set her drink down, hard - it fell off the cart and stained the white carpet with whiskey. "You tire me," she said in a dead, exhausted voice, falling back against the bed. "God, how you tire me!"

"I'm sending you somewhere to get better. I owe you that much, at least," Magnus said quietly. "But you and I are through."

I followed Magnus out of the room and down the tiled staircase to the front hall in silence. We met no one on the way out - I was surprised that Archer hadn't stepped forward to defend his mistress. We got into Magnus' car, and we rode in silence until his chauffeur dropped me off at my office. As a private detective, I saw far too much of others' business as it was. I wish I hadn't been there to watch Camille break Magnus' heart.

 

The next night, I received a telegram from Magnus asking me to meet him at the Black Cat Bar. My dinner jacket seemed constricting and suffocating, too tight in all the wrong places. Magnus had been kind enough to settle Camille's bills on her behalf, but it would still be a reminder of her. Wearing this to meet him felt like rubbing salt in a wound.

The hatcheck girl - Dolly - looked up at me when I came in, then smirked. It was only then that I realised that in my distraction over the suit, I had forgotten to acquire a bow tie of my own. 

Magnus was holding court in the Black Cat Bar like a king presiding over his kingdom, surrounded by beautiful people laughing at his witty quips and leaning in to his every word. He was dressed extravagantly today in a royal blue embroidered silk shirt and far more make-up and jewellery than he usually wore, a bright splash of colour among the whites and greys. 

He clucked over the state of my borrowed bow tie but seemed happy enough to see me.

"Did you ask me over to talk to Raphael?" I asked him.

"Always so serious, Alexander! Can't I see you for pleasure instead of business?" he laughed.

He seemed pretty inebriated for someone who could probably hold his liquor well, and it wasn't even eight. He pouted when I took the liberty of plucking the whiskey glass out of his hand, but didn't protest otherwise. 

"I'm going to get you a glass of water," I told him firmly.

I had barely reached the bar when there was a commotion from the front entrance of the Black Cat, then four men who obviously hadn't bothered with the dress code barged in. Three were dressed in standard police blues, but one was wearing the cheap suit and trench coat combination that marked him as the detective in charge. I recognised him immediately - it was Emil Pangborn, a slimy bigoted bastard who had joined the force a few years before I did.

The tension in the room was palpable. I probably wasn't the only closeted gay man in this room. Pangborn's greedy eyes scanned the room slowly, lingering threateningly here and there, probably spotting faces he recognised and filing that information away for a later chat which would doubtlessly involve a pretty sum of money changing hands. Even though I had a legitimate reason to be here tonight, I found myself angling my body slightly so that my back was facing the invading posse.

My shoulders tensed when I noticed his gaze landing on Magnus, and I was on my feet when Pangborn walked towards him.

"Are you Magnus Bane?" Pangborn asked as he flashed his badge.

"Is anything the matter, officers?" Magnus asked, his eyes glittering dangerously. "I think you'll find that this is a reputable place, and that all my licenses are in order."

"I'm sure it is, Mr Bane," Pangborn sneered. "But we're not here about your doubtless  _reputable_ premises today. We're here for you."

Magnus sat up straighter at that.

"You are under arrest for the murder of Jack Archer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing this fic and [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11744898/chapters/26467662) simultaneously, so I'll probably alternate updates pretty evenly between the two. That translates to roughly one chapter for each fic every week.
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting!


	5. Chapter 5

 

"That's not possible," I cut in. "I was with Mr Bane the whole time when we went to visit Miss Belcourt yesterday, and we didn't see hide or hair of Archer."

Pangborn startled at the intrusion, then recognised me. He looked me up and down, his tense posture relaxing into his former cocky stance.

"Well, well, well. Lightwood. Fancy seeing you here," Pangborn leered.

"Mr Bane is my client," I said through clenched teeth.

"This is a serious police investigation. What kind of detective would I be if I went around blabbing details of a hot case to any Tom, Dick, and Harry? Since when are you a lawyer, Lightwood? Last I heard, you were mucking around playing private dick." He made a big show of looking between me and Magnus, then said: "Or maybe you still are. It must pay well, eh, for you to be all dressed up," Pangborn laughed as if he'd just told a clever joke, and I suppose he thought he had. One of the officers, who had caught Pangborn's insinuations, was looking at me with disgust. 

"I have a license to operate as a private detective," I bit out. "It's my job to protect my client, and to do that I have to find out what exactly you're accusing him of."

"Alright, I'll bite," Pangborn said with a condescending air. "Jack Archer was murdered in the night two days ago, and Miss Camille Belcourt discovered his body in the servant's quarters yesterday evening. You say you were with Mr Bane yesterday. How about the night before?" Pangborn smirked. "Are you giving Mr Bane an alibi for that as well?"

I ignored that last bit. "What reason would Mr Bane have to kill Archer?"

"Miss Camille Belcourt says Mr Bane here broke down the front door and forced his way to her house and caused a fuss because she'd broken off their engagement. Says Mr Bane has a bit of a violent temper. So here's what I'm thinking: Bane tries to come around at night to do Miss Belcourt harm, but her faithful butler stops him and Bane accidentally kills him. Then Bane plays you for a sucker and has you come around with him the day after when he's confronting Miss Belcourt, to give himself an alibi. How does that story sound?"

"It sounds like bullshit," I ground out furiously. "It sounds like you realised Magnus was rich and thought you could squeeze a nice little nest egg out of him if you played it right." And while my mother had brought me up never to hit a woman, I thought I might make an exception for Camille Belcourt the next time I saw her.

"Careful what you say, Lightwood. Maybe I should be arresting you too, as an accessory to murder," Pangborn said threateningly.

Magnus cut me off before I could respond. "It's alright, Alexander. I've done nothing wrong, so I have nothing to fear. My lawyer Ragnor Fell will be in touch with you soon," Magnus said calmly. 

Magnus allowed them to cuff him and lead them out of the Black Cat Bar, his expression calm and haughty the whole time. I could only watch them go. The mood in the Black Cat remained tense after the cops had left, and people started to leave in a steady trickle. 

I sat down heavily at the bar and ordered a double scotch. 

"If I make it, are you going to drink it?" Raphael asked skeptically. 

I glared at him and downed the glass in one go. It didn't do me any good. 

"So. Private eye, huh?" Raphael asked, his voice noticeably cooler than usual.

"Miss Belcourt was having an affair," I said by way of explanation, but Raphael did not look convinced. 

"Look - tell Magnus to mind his own business if he knows what's good for him, and that goes for you too, Mr Private Eye," Raphael scowled. "Louis Karnstein is my problem to deal with."

It was lucky that I had a good poker face. It turned out the surly bartender was full of surprises, and not in a good way. I ordered another double scotch, hoping that Raphael would come back around to talk to me, but he stayed well out of my way for the rest of the night. Whoever Louis Karnstein was, he kept turning up like a bad egg. If Raphael's trouble was with him, and he was warning Magnus off it, did that mean that Magnus had lied, and Karnstein was more than just a business rival? I had a feeling the key to this little mystery lay in that coded letter Camille Belcourt had found. Unfortunately, I also distinctly remembered returning the letter to her. I stayed till the Black Cat closed, nursing my second glass of double scotch. Raphael gave me the stink eye when he came round to clear my glass and noticed I hadn't touched a single drop.

 

It was close to midnight when I put my car away and walked around to the front lobby of my apartment block. The plate-glass door was put on the lock at ten, so I had to get my keys out. The lobby was barren, undecorated except for a few scattered potted palms which were overgrown and half-withered. I was almost at the elevator when I noticed the man in the shadow of one of these overgrown palms. He put his green evening paper down and flicked a cigarette butt into the tub the palm grew in.

He said: "The boss wants to talk to you. You sure keep your friends waiting, pal."

I stood still. He was a broad man, square-jawed with dirty blond hair, good-looking in a conventional way. I was about a head taller than him - I'd probably be able to take him out easily enough on my own.

"What about?"

"You don't get to be the one asking the questions, pal. Just keep your nose clean and everything will be jake." His hand hovered near the upper buttonhole of his open coat.

That certainly complicated matters. I had a gun of my own, but it was upstairs in my desk drawer. I might be able to bluff my way through, but the slim lines of the dinner jacket were working against me - no place to conceal a gun.

I nodded at him, and he smirked. "After you."

I didn't want to walk with my back towards him. "I don't know where we're going."

"Just keep walking and you'll know it when you see it."

I gritted my teeth and exited my apartment building. I guess it was lucky that it had been a while since that glass of double scotch. I should have known it was a bad idea to drink - nothing good ever happened to me when I drank.

We walked down the dark and empty street in silence, the goon keeping a few steps behind me. I had intended to go home, catch what little sleep I could, then find out what the deal was on Louis Karnstein, but I had a feeling he had found me first. There was a car idling a block away from my apartment, a grey coupe. The driver had dark hair and a scruffy, unshaven face. He didn't bother turning around.

"Get in the backseat, and no funny business," the goon behind me said. "We're going for a ride."

 

I hadn't been expecting a drive into a residential area. Maybe an office or a club room, or even a trip down to the warehouses near the docks where the night would end with a slug in my brain and my name splashed over the headlines the next morning, sure, but not these neat rows of cabin-like houses. There was a high bank on one side of the road, and the houses had been built down the slope on the other side, so their roofs were not very much above road level. Hedges and trimmed shrubs blocked the front windows from curious eyes. The houses were a good distance away from each other - I bet you could fire a few shots in one and not have the neighbours hear a thing. It seemed like a nice neighbourhood to have bad habits in.

The blond goon escorted me from the car all the way to the front entrance all proper-like, and ushered me along a carpeted hall into a warm oak-panelled office. This was a square room with a stone fireplace in which a fire of juniper logs burned lazily. It was the room of a very rich man - even the desk looked like a valuable antique.

The man behind the desk was maybe in his forties, every inch the venerable gentleman in his well-cut smoking jacket and hair greying at the temples. 

"Mr Lightwood," he greeted me pleasantly. "I'm sorry about the late hour." He had a slight accent I couldn't quite place, something European.

"Your trigger man said you wanted to talk," I said. "What is it?"

"What's your hurry? Have a drink and sit down."

"No hurry at all. You and I haven't anything to talk about but business."

"You'll have the drink and like it," he said, and his tone of voice broached no argument.

I kept quiet and sat down on one of the red leather chairs in front of his desk while he mixed two drinks and set one in front of me. He offered me cigarettes from a monogrammed case - stamped with the initials 'L.K.' - and shrugged when I shook my head. His blond goon held out a light for him, and he took a deep lungful before speaking to me.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Not a clue."

He chuckled. "A kidder, eh? Don't waste it with me, boy. I know who you are."

"Then I'm afraid you have the upper hand."

"What did Magnus Bane tell you about me?"

I gave him a blank stare.

Karnstein nodded at the blond thug, who flicked a black Luger out and pointed it at my chest.

"Let's try this again - what did Magnus Bane tell you about me?"

"Like I said, I don't know who you are," I said evenly, ignoring the muzzle of the Luger staring down at me like a dark tunnel. "Mr Bane hired me to investigate his fiancée. Last I checked, you don't look like Camille Belcourt."

Karnstein leaned back in his own chair and took another puff on his cigarette. "You've got balls, I'll give you that," he said. 

He reached into his desk drawer and brought out a very familiar-looking letter. He threw it on his desk between us. "Ring any bells?"

"Sure. Miss Belcourt found it among Mr Bane's things."

"What does it say?"

"I don't know."

"And you weren't even a little bit curious?" 

"I haven't been asked to be."

"What if I asked you to be? A hundred and fifty to start sound about right?"

"I'm afraid I prefer to stick to one customer at a time."

Karnstein shook his head and laughed. "Fine. Let's play it your way. Take the letter and give it back to Mr Bane with my regards, will you? The name's Karnstein. Louis Karnstein."

I nodded solemnly and dutifully tucked the letter in my jacket pocket. I knew the game he was playing - he knew that with the letter in my possession, I wouldn't be able to resist trying to crack the code. After all, I was a professional busybody. 

"Quinn, make sure that Mr Lightwood gets home in one piece, will you?" he said to the blond thug behind him. "I would hate for a bright young man like himself to end up with lead in his skull because he put his faith in the wrong man."

I didn't say a word on the drive back to my apartment. Quinn escorted me all the way to the plate-glass door with a smirk.

"You'll hear from the boss again," he said.  

I watched him until he left my building, then took the elevator up to my apartment. I locked and bolted the doors and checked all the windows and pulled all the blinds down. I took the letter out of my jacket pocket and threw it on my desk. I stared at it for a long while, thinking about Karnstein and Raphael and Magnus - then I started the stove in my little kitchen, and set the letter on fire. I watched the spiky writing and cheap paper curl into ashes, and I even managed to clean it all up before I crawled into bed. If I dreamt that night, I don't recall any of it.


	6. Chapter 6

 

I hardly ever brought my gun with me - I didn't have much use for it when the most dangerous thing I had faced in my previous cases was an irate poodle. Before I left for my office in the morning, I carefully took out my .357 Colt, unwrapped it from the canton flannel, and made sure it was properly cleaned and oiled. It had a bright nickel finish, nothing fancy, but I favoured it for its double-action trigger pull - something like that made all the difference between life and death in a quick draw. I made sure it was fully loaded.

I went one last round through the apartment to make sure all the windows were properly locked. Maybe I needed some life insurance, or a cat to come home to. What I did have was a jacket, a hat and a gun. I put them on and went out of the apartment.

I kept my eye on my rearview mirror the whole drive down to the office, but if I had a tail he was skilled enough that I didn't spot him. There were no blond thugs waiting for me in the lobby or in the reception room of my office, but the day was still young. I made sure the connecting door to my office was locked.

As the day wore on, the heat and humidity started to climb in my stuffy little office. I shrugged off my jacket, but I didn't open the windows. I had nothing more entertaining than a few advertisements in my mail and my own thoughts, but I didn't feel like making the effort to get lunch. I looked up Ragnor Fell in the phone book, but the number just rang out.

I was just about to head down to the Black Cat to see if I couldn't wheedle Raphael's address out of someone when the buzzer told me someone had entered my reception room. I put my hand on the handle of my gun and walked over to the door. Behind the door I could just make out the murmuring of two distinctly male voices.

I twisted the door open a crack with my left hand, and waited a beat, then peeked out cautiously, and was surprised to see Magnus and a strange gentleman standing there.

"Magnus," I said in relief, putting my gun back in my shoulder holster and pulling the door open properly.

He narrowed his eyes. "Has there been trouble?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle." My gaze flickered to the stranger, who was wearing a slightly fussy suit with a green cravat. 

"This is Ragnor Fell," Magnus said, gesturing at his friend. "My good friend and legal counsel."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Lightwood," Fell said with a pleasant smile and ready handshake. "I have heard so much about you."

"I was discussing business with Ragnor into the wee hours of the morning the night Archer was murdered, so he provided me with a reasonable alibi," Magnus explained. "It was Camille's word against ours. I made bail easily enough." 

"Only bail? They didn't drop the charges?" 

"Capital murder is a serious charge, Alexander," Magnus replied. "Surely you wouldn't expect the police to take it lightly."

"And he refused to pay that slimy cop a single cent," Fell interjected with a look of pride and fond exasperation. "Well, I have other business to attend to. It was nice meeting you, Mr Lightwood."

After Fell had left, I ushered Magnus into my office, taking care to lock the connecting door.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" Magnus asked.

"Louis Karnstein wanted to talk. He didn't want to take 'no' for an answer." 

Magnus' eyes flashed with anger and shock, and I felt him scanning me from head to toe as if I could possibly be hiding some major injury. 

"What did he want with you?"

"He wanted me to break the code on that letter you received from Raphael. Did you know Raphael is involved with Karnstein?"

"No, I did not." Magnus had caught the accusatory edge in my voice. He was on the defensive at once, shoulders squared and tone guarded. "Where's the letter now?"  

"I burned it."

Magnus frowned. "Oh, Alexander. Why would you do that? Karnstein is a dangerous man."  

"I was going to make an enemy of him anyway, because I wouldn't have told him anything. And even if I'd refused to break the code, I'm sure Karnstein would have been able to find someone else to do it. I'm hardly the only private detective in New York, and I'm certainly not the smartest. Leaving that letter lying around would just be asking for trouble."

"Trouble for me, certainly, but now you've brought trouble on yourself," Magnus frowned. "And now you won't know what was in the letter." 

"You could tell me." 

"You're not afraid that I might be lying to you? You'd take me at my word?" His gaze was piercing, challenging. 

"I trust you," I told him. "I don't know why, but I do."

Magnus' gaze softened. 

"I grew up in Chicago. I am the illegitimate son of a very wealthy man, and before he discovered my existence and wanted me for his heir, I used to run on the streets and play with the other children from the slum. Raphael was one of these children, and even after I began living with my father, Raphael's mother came in every week, as part of the help, and sometimes she brought him along with her. We were close until we grew older and became conscious of the differences in our social standing. Well, Raphael was conscious of it; I never particularly cared."

"And Karnstein?"

"I don't know how Raphael came to be involved, if that is what you are asking. As for me, my business is in rare objects - gemstones, antiques, art pieces. I inherited the business from my father. Karnstein has a reputation in the business for persuading collectors to part with items they had insisted are not for sale. I'm sure you have a good idea how he manages that. I try not to have anything to do with Karnstein on principle, but it's a niche business and sometimes our paths cross. Of course, I hadn't realised he was also running a drug cartel on the side," Magnus said unhappily. "I hope Raphael is not involved in that side of Karnstein's business."

I let that drift with the tide. Magnus was not a stupid man; the trade of rare objects hardly warranted the sort of reaction Karnstein was showing over that coded letter.  

"You haven't been in touch with Raphael since you were children?" 

Magnus shook his head. "I received the coded letter from Raphael a month ago. Do you know what is a keyword cipher?" 

"Yes," I nodded. "Monoalphabetic substitution, with a keyword determining how the cipher alphabet and plain alphabet match up."

This seemed to amuse Magnus. He hid his smile and continued: "Our keyword has always been 'lavender'. It was his mother's favourite colour, you see. But there wasn't much in the letter - just informing me that he was in town because he had run into some trouble in Chicago, and a request to meet me. I can't think of why Karnstein would be interested in any of that."

"Was there anything strange in the letter? Anything that didn't make sense, or sounded odd?"

"He did mention that his mother had passed, and that she was buried in the New York Marble Cemetery. I had been meaning to pay my respects," Magnus frowned. "But that can't be right - Raphael was brought up Catholic. His mother would have wanted to be buried in a Catholic cemetery."

"Not to mention it's a long way from Chicago," I pointed out.

Magnus shrugged. "She was from New York. It is not impossible. Do you really think this is the clue?"  

"Only one way to find out," I said, grabbing my jacket and hat. 

  

The rain that had been looming threateningly all afternoon finally began to fall, a steady staccato rhythm on the roof of my beat-up sedan. The roof was leaking a little. I kept my eye on the rearview mirror, but everybody seemed to be doing a good job of minding their own business. 

"Why would Raphael want me to find whatever it is he has hidden here?" Magnus asked. "Why not keep it with him?"

"Perhaps he thought it would be safer with you." 

Magnus snorted. "I'm not sure Raphael trusts me all that much, Alexander."

The entrance to the New York Marble Cemetery was marked by a black wrought-iron gate decorated with twirling vines. I didn't have an umbrella in my car, but Magnus didn't seem to mind the rain. He turned the collar of his coat up and trudged through the muddy path, unheeding of the state of his shoes.

"What are we looking for?" 

"His mother's name was Guadalupe."

There were no markers on the ground here - the marble vaults had been built completely underground. Instead, plaques had been placed in the walls of the cemetery with the location of corresponding vaults. Most of the walls were crumbling, a sad, stark reminder that even stone didn't last forever. Here and there were gaping holes where some plaques had fallen out. I peered at the names on the tablets set in the walls, the engravings worn into faint indentations by decades of weather.

"I don't think there's been a new burial here since the 1800s."

Magnus murmured his agreement. "No, I don't think she has been buried here. But look -"

He was pointing at one of the tablets, which marked the resting place of one Lavender Smith.

I dug my fingers into the ground near the wall just under the plaque, the grass slick and slippery from the rain. The mud oozed and squelched around my hand, and my fingers closed around something solid.

"What is it?" Magnus asked, glancing briefly my way before his eyes returned to the gate of the cemetery.

It was a small rectangular package, wrapped tightly in oilskin. It wasn't heavy.

"I think it's a notebook," I said, turning the package around in my hand. 

"How about we go to my place?" Magnus suggested. "It's closer than your office." 

I nodded, thinking of the state of my empty apartment. It would be too much to hope that Karnstein didn't know where Magnus lived, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious about Magnus' living quarters. 

The rain was getting heavier, unseasonable weather for fall. We hurried to my car, the oilskin package tucked securely in my breast pocket. The sky was almost completely dark now, what little daylight left lost in the thunderstorm above our heads. I started the motor.

There weren't many cars or passengers out in this weather. The streetlights and the lights from the stores had been drowned out in the darkness and haze of the deluge, making it feel like we were surrounded by vague shapes and the occasional irritated honk from a passing car.

I had my eye on the rearview mirror by habit now, but that turned out to be a mistake when the grey coupe shot out of nowhere in front of us, forcing me to swerve the sedan sharply on the rain-slick street to avoid a collision.

We skidded slightly - it was lucky I wasn't going fast. Someone out on the street, probably another driver, had braved the rain to yell at us. There was a flash that I took for lightning at first, and a bang, and the yelling cut off abruptly.

"Son of a bitch!" I cursed. I had the car back in gear immediately, speeding away from the grey coupe. The next shot clipped one of my side mirrors. 

"They're going to draw the coppers out, this doesn't make sense," I said through gritted teeth as I fought the steering wheel threatening to spin out of control on the slippery roads. The grey coupe was sitting right on our tail now. 

"Not if Karnstein's already got the cops in his pocket," Magnus replied grimly. "A trumped-up murder charge is a bit too inventive, even for Camille."

Karnstein must have been watching and waiting for us to get the parcel Raphael had hidden before making his move. We'd played right into his hand. I had made the mistake of assuming Karnstein wanted whatever was in the oilskin parcel intact; from the looks of it, he wanted it to go up in flames, and would only be too happy if we went along with it.

The glass in the back window of the car shattered. I glanced fearfully at Magnus, our eyes meeting for a second, and was relieved to see he hadn't been hit. At least, not this time - we might not be that lucky the next time. With the roads in this state, I didn't dare weave too much to avoid the gunfire, lest I lost control of my car completely. It just wasn't made for this kind of driving.

"Alexander, give me your gun."

We didn't have time for questions. I handed it over.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Magnus check the safety, then steel himself and lean out of the window to fire a shot at our tail. He ducked back in just in time - my other side mirror flew off in a shower of mirror shards. 

"Magnus, I-"

"Eyes on the road, Alexander," Magnus snapped, and leaned out to take another shot. 

This time, his aim was true - the grey coupe spun suddenly, skidding with a horrible screech on the road and crashing into another car. I didn't stop to find out if the driver was dead or just unconscious - I stepped on the pedal and got the hell out of there.

"That was one hell of a shot," I told Magnus.

He shrugged. "Beginner's luck."

"They're going to be able to trace that bullet back to me, you know? I'm on the register."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," Magnus said firmly. "Now let's find out what Karnstein was so eager to get rid of."


	7. Chapter 7

  

 

Magnus' place was a three-storey townhouse built from reddish-brown Jersey freestone, a picturesque thing in Brooklyn Heights.

My battered car, parked right in front of it, stood out in the neighbourhood like a canker sore. 

"I'll have someone drive it away for repairs," Magnus said as we walked in the door. "It would probably be best that we were discreet about you being here, anyway."

I nodded and followed his example of peeling my sodden coat off to hang on the coat tree, mindful that I was dripping water and trekking mud all over his fine Indian rug. Magnus didn't seem to care.

"I'm afraid I don't have any staff - just people who come in every now and then for cleaning," Magnus said. "I'll bring some hot toddy up, and you can start the fire in the den - second floor, first room to your left," Magnus suggested.

On first glance, Magnus' house reminded me somewhat of the Belcourts'. There was an opulence to the furnishings, the wood panelling done in rich honey tones and the decorative Indian carpets in striking red-and-black patterns complimenting the occasional beaded red fabric lampshade beautifully. It was clear that Magnus was not one to scrimp on creature comforts, although it struck me as very strange that he didn't even have a butler to see to his needs.

Like the Belcourts, Magnus had collected many souvenirs from his travels to exotic places. But where the late Mr Belcourt had chosen to display pieces which were obviously valuable and of exquisite craftsmanship, Magnus also had a collection of knick knacks scattered amongst his expensive art pieces - a cheap white porcelain cat with a chipped ear; an odd egg-shaped rock that had been split open to reveal a sparkling purple constellation of quartz crystals inside; a strange musical instrument that looked like it had been made from the shell of some animal; a roughly-made clay bowl that had cracked at some point, only to be mended carefully with what looked like pure gold. I had a feeling there was a story behind every single one of these curios, and suddenly wished for many long, quiet evenings to hear them all.  

From where I was standing in the foyer, I could see a large fireplace in the living room, with several plush armchairs set in front of it, but I followed his instructions and made my way upstairs. I noted that the third step from the bottom creaked a little, and that one of the floorboards in the landing seemed to fit poorly with its brethren, such that it protested loudly when stepped on. 

Magnus' den was a lovely, cosy room. I got the fire going easily enough, and the small space warmed up quickly. There was a wing-backed armchair near the window, and a simpler, well-worn leather armchair on the other side. I opted to settle in this one and set about unwrapping the oilskin parcel that had almost cost us our lives. 

The parcel contained a brown leather-bound notebook. In it was a list of strange items, prices, and what I figured out were names and addresses written in code. There were over four hundred entries, probably a list of items and respective customers. Why was Karnstein so eager to get rid of this list? Was he afraid of blackmail? Would contacting any of the people on this list link back to Karnstein?

I heard Magnus' footsteps on the landing before I saw him come in. 

"Magnus, would you have any idea what's an "Ukrainian Lily' or 'Hungarian Rose'? Are these a code names for some sort of jewels or antiques?"  

Magnus shook his head, peering at the notebook over my shoulders. His breath ghosted over the back of my neck, making my skin tingle. 

"I have never heard of these items. But I assume, knowing Karnstein, that it's something nefarious." 

"Drugs?"

"Heaven knows. This has gone on far enough - we should talk to Raphael tomorrow. He should be at the Black Cat before it opens," Magnus said. He had already changed into dry clothes, and was holding two cups of something that smelled sweet and spiced. 

He caught my look and pointedly offered one glass to me. "Yes, I know you don't drink, Alexander, but you are going to catch your death in your wet things." 

I accepted the glass reluctantly. Magnus glared at me until I took a sip. The taste of honey and whiskey spread on my tongue. 

"I'll make us dinner, and I might have some clothes that will fit you. You are welcome to stay the night," Magnus offered. 

I was suddenly aware that I was alone with Magnus in this big empty house. Surely there were already whispers about me after the encounter with Pangborn at the Black Cat Bar. 

"I should go."

"Please, Alexander. You're exhausted, and I have a perfectly serviceable guest room - several, in fact." He seemed to sense the reason for my hesitation. "Alexander, we are friends, aren't we? Isn't this what friends do?" 

"Friends. Right." I swallowed down the confusing twist of disappointment, the whiskey suddenly sour on my tongue. 

"Look - finish your drink. And then decide," Magnus suggested with a small smile. 

"Alright," I nodded.

He excused himself to make dinner, and I took another look at the leather notebook, hoping I could figure out what the code names for the items meant, but no matter how hard I looked, the notebook stubbornly refused to yield any more answers.

  

Magnus' new chauffeur picked us up the next morning in a brand new cream-coloured Cadillac. He must have noticed the state of my clothes, but he had a poker face to rival mine.

The Black Cat was just gearing up for the night's business. Magnus had a word with his manager, a charming black woman named Maia, but Raphael had apparently decided not to show up today. It was too much of a coincidence.

"Try the hatcheck girl up front - they was gettin' on like a house on fire, if you catch my meaning," Maia smirked.

Magnus raised an eyebrow but made his way to the coat check room.

"Lily. Do you know where Raphael is?" 

"Lily? Her name tag says 'Dolly'," I frowned.

"Just a name, sugar," the girl drawled. "Hey, I know you - the one with the necktie."

Her gaze flicked to Magnus. "I don't know nothing about Raphael." 

"Lily, please."

She had her eyes on me again. "Was it you on the radio last night? The coppers put out a notice for a grey sedan." 

I hadn't even thought of turning on the radio to listen out for any word that had gotten around. I was getting sloppy, distracted. And in my line of work, that could be fatal. 

"He's in trouble, Lily," Magnus said softly. 

"How do I know that trouble ain't you two?" Lily challenged.

"Raphael's got a tough crowd after him," I told her. I took a gamble. "The name Karnstein ring any bells?" 

She flinched, just the barest twitch. I knew I had her now, but she played it cool. "Maybe. But how do I know you aren't in cahoots with him?"  

"Whatever Raphael's told you about Karnstein, you know he's a dangerous man. You might not know me from Adam, but you must've been here long enough to be familiar with Magnus. Does Magnus honestly strike you as the type to work with Karnstein? Do you really want to be playing Twenty Questions here with us while Karnstein gets a drop on Raphael?"

Lily glared at me. I met her dark eyes head on. "If I bring you to him, won't we be followed?" Lily shook her head stubbornly. 

"How about if Magnus got someone to drive you there, and Magnus and I hid in the back of the car?" I suggested. 

"Who did you have in mind?" Magnus asked.

"Ragnor Fell. You trust him, right?" 

"With my life," Magnus agreed.

Ragnor's car was a flashy European import, but I was pleased to note that it had a roomy backseat, as neither Magnus nor myself were small men. He let the valet drive it to garage, where Magnus and I smuggled ourselves into the back before it was driven out again. Ragnor made a big show of picking Lily up as if he were her suitor, which seemed to amuse Magnus greatly. We were pressed close together in the cramped space, crouched down like children playing hide-and-go-seek, and I could feel his body shaking with silent laughter. 

He turned to me, his eyes sparkling with mirth. He was so close that I could count every eye lash, every crinkle his laughter had put on his face. The afternoon light coming in through the car window made his brown eyes look almost golden, the dark lines of kohl bringing out their colour. We were squashed together in a truly undignified position, and yet he was still the most beautiful person I had ever seen. I couldn't tear my eyes away from him. 

The laughter faded from Magnus' face and his lips fell open in surprise. 

"Alexander," he said softly. 

I cleared my throat, breaking the spell. "Mr Fell, please make sure we aren't being followed," I said loudly, the desperate flailing of a drowning man. 

"Will do, Mr Lightwood."

 

Raphael's place turned out to be in a row of cheap apartment blocks which, by a stroke of pure luck, had a basement garage opening. A few windows were open a crack, and radios were bleating weakly. We opted to avoid the front lobby and went up by the fire escape stairs, which hadn't been swept in at least a month. Bums had slept on them, eaten on them, left crusts and fragments of greasy newspaper, matches, and cigarette butts. I spotted a gutted pocketbook in one corner, and a pouched ring of pale rubber discarded in another shadowy corner. The walls were covered with rude scribbles. It was the sort of place where the least offensive smell one could expect was the smell of stale cigarettes, and one tried not to look too closely at the floor.

By the time we came out at the third floor, I was desperate for fresh air. Unfortunately, the narrow hallway was in no better state. The stench of old cigarettes lingered, probably soaked into the ragged brown carpet which might have been yellow once to match the walls. The lights had blown and had not been replaced, and all there was was a narrow high window, barely more than a slit, with its glass pane caked with grime so that it let in precious little light or air. The only other source of illumination was a single drop light burning far back from the open door of the once gilt elevator.

Lily led us down the line and stopped at the door marked "309". There was a pushbutton beside the door, but she ignored it and let us in with the key. 

"Raph?" she called out softly. 

The apartment was dark, the curtains drawn tightly and the lights were not on. It wasn't difficult to adjust to the room after the gloom of the hallway. I was the last in. I heard the door snick shut behind me; and felt the unmistakable cold metal of a gun pressed to my temple, and heard the sharp click of the safety. 

"I thought I told you to mind your own business, Mr Private Eye," Raphael said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger, the chapter was getting too long. On the plus side, that probably means the next chapter will be up soon!


	8. Chapter 8

 

"Put that gun down, Raphael," Magnus said firmly. 

"I told him to pass the message, but then you never did know how to keep you nose out of my business even when we were kids," Raphael said coldly. 

He flicked his gaze to Lily, and she flinched. "I should have known you couldn't be trusted." 

"Why are you doing this, Raphael? I thought we were friends," Magnus said. 

"You thought wrong." 

"If you don't trust Magnus, why did you send him that letter? Why give him the clues to the notebook?" I asked. 

"Oh, so you did find it. No wonder Karnstein sent his goons after you. I was watching Magnus' car, but I hadn't figured on him taking your car. This could all have been over last night - I should have kept a closer eye on you as well. You've gone and thrown a wrench in my plans, pal."

"What are you playing at, Raphael?"

"Not a game, Mr Private Eye. I'd suggest you turn around and get out now, while you still can." He pressed the muzzle of the gun more insistently into my skull.

"I think it's a bit too late for that," I said. "I've already seen the contents of that notebook, and I have a good memory. I have a feeling Karnstein won't let that go."

"That's too bad," Raphael said evenly.

I braced myself to attempt to duck the bullet - but he simply took the gun away from my head, but kept it in his hand, hanging loosely at his side. "I didn't want more innocent blood spilled."

"You knew that book was trouble, but you wanted me to find it, or at least make Karnstein think that I had it. You set me up," Magnus accused, his voice hard.  

"I thought you could take care of yourself." Raphael shot back. "Ever since we were children, you were always the one with the plan, the one who dreamed up the schemes and never got caught."

"So what was _your_ plan? Use Karnstein to take me out? Hope that I'd have to kill him first to save my own skin?"

"I owe you a debt, Magnus. You might not think very much of me, but I didn't forget that. You were only meant to be bait - I told you I would have handled Karnstein on my own." Raphael shrugged. He walked to a window and peered out of it before flicking it shut again. "I just needed you to make him dance, and forget to look behind his back."

"You don't have to do everything alone, Raphael," Magnus sighed. "We want to put Karnstein behind bars as much as you do-"

"I don't want Karnstein behind bars," Raphael growled, his hand tightening on his gun. "I want him _dead_. Men like him don't get sent to prison - they know the right people, and they can afford to pay their way out."

"What did Karnstein do to you?" Magnus asked.

Raphael's jaw clenched. "Do you remember my sister Rosa?" Magnus nodded.

"She was snatched. You know what they do to girls they steal from the slums," Raphael ground his teeth. "I went to Karnstein, and he promised me he'd get Rosa back if I worked for him. So I did, and I did my job well. And he got my sister back, so I didn't ask what was a 'Hungarian Rose' or an "Ukrainian Lily'." 

"I'm guessing you found out," Magnus said.

"People, Magnus," Raphael swallowed. "Karnstein has a human trafficking racket going on in Europe. Don't you understand, Magnus? Don't you understand what I did?" Raphael said bleakly. "I am a monster. I have become one of the things my mother feared, I became one of the things that stole my sister."

"But Raphael, you didn't know."

"I knew what kind of man Karnstein is," Raphael countered.  

Lily, who had been quiet all this while, said: "You're a good man, Raphael. You're nothing like Karnstein." 

“It is no longer possible for me to be good,” Raphael said, his voice steely. “If I were still good and brave, I would do what my mother would want if she knew the truth - I should take that notebook and turn myself in to the police and submit myself to the gallows. But I am a coward, and I do not want to burn in the fires of Hell yet. So I will do the next best thing - if I'm going to Hell anyway, I'm sending Karnstein there first."

"And how do you propose to do that?" Magnus asked. 

"You, Mr Private Eye," Raphael barked. "Would you be able to find out where Karnstein is, or is that too difficult for you?"

"Even if I did know where he lived, doesn't mean I'm going to tell you. This is a suicide mission, and you know it," I replied. 

Something in my demeanor must have given me away. In a flash, Raphael had his gun under Magnus' chin and Magnus' arm twisted behind his back. I had my own gun out and trained on Raphael, but Raphael was smaller than Magnus, and he held Magnus in front of himself like a shield. 

"Relax, lover boy. I won't kill Magnus. But I didn't say anything about blowing his limbs off."

"Raphael, you're only making things tougher for everybody else," Magnus said through gritted teeth.

"I don’t care about everybody else," Raphael snarled. 

"That’s cemetery talk, Raphael."

"Why not? I'm a dead man walking. The only thing is, I ain’t buried yet." Raphael grinned at me, teeth bared and skin stretched tight in a way that reminded me of a skull. "How about it? Are you going to spill or not?"

"Alec, no-" Magnus cut off with a pained yell when Raphael jerked his arm up roughly.  

"If there was one thing I learned under Karnstein, it was pain. How to give it, how much of it a man could take until he breaks. How much is it going to take to break you, hm?"

He tightened his hold on Magnus' arm and put more pressure on it. Magnus bit his lip hard to stifle his response, hard enough to draw blood.  

I kept my gun on Raphael and reached for the pen and paper pad next to the telephone. Magnus probably thought the life of his friend was worth more than a dislocated shoulder, and I was inclined to agree with him, but Raphael didn't seem in the mood to listen to reason, and I didn't want to test how far he was willing to go. Raphael watched me with eagle eyes while I scribbled out an address.  

"You'd best not be trying to pull any tricks," he warned, indicating to Lily that she should take the paper from me and pass it to him. 

I had hoped that he would let Magnus go once he had received the paper - I hadn't counted on him dislocating Magnus' shoulder with a hard jerk before shoving him at me and running for the door. I caught Magnus on instinct, careful to avoid his injured shoulder. 

"I'll be fine," Magnus insisted through gritted teeth. "Go after Raphael!" 

I kept my gun out and ran out of the door. I could hear Raphael's footsteps thundering down the fire stairs. I was in passable shape, but Raphael was faster - I reached the basement garage just in time to see him screeching down the road behind the wheel of a battered tan sedan. 

I cursed. I didn't have a car anymore, and a taxi was out of the question for a job like this. I scanned the cars in the basement garage - there weren't many parked here, this early in the afternoon. The dusty Buick in the corner looked like my best bet, with a window carelessly left rolled down. Fortunately, I was saved from having to steal my ride when a familiar European car swung into the garage. 

"Was that him then, in the tan sedan? I thought you might need a getaway car or the like," Ragnor said briskly, already getting out of his car.

I nodded my thanks as I got behind the wheel. "Magnus, in 309 - dislocated shoulder." 

Ragnor nodded gravely and made for the front lobby. I got the car in gear and sped off towards Karnstein's house. 

 

Karnstein's house was completely silent when I pulled up in front of it. Raphael's tan sedan was nowhere in sight. I found a gap in the hedge and forced my way through, and found myself at the front door. I tried it and was surprised to find it locked - if Raphael was here, surely he would have had to force his way in. Had I somehow managed to beat Raphael to Karnstein's house? 

I was just about to use the pushbutton at the side of the door when three shots boomed in the house. There was a hoarse shout, then another gunshot - then silence.  

I gave the front door a heavy shoulder, but that was foolish - all that got me was a bruised shoulder. Then I heard a clatter of feet going down steps, and the sudden roar of a starting car. There must be a back door that I had missed. The sides of the house were pinned by hedges and the steep bank of a slope. The only way round to the back must be from the road. 

I ran down the driveway to the tall front gate, prepared to scale the elaborate modern contraption, and caught the glimpse of the tan sedan speeding way, fading swiftly into the distance. Was that Raphael, or was it just someone borrowing his car for a quick getaway? I guess there was only one way to find out.

I vaulted over the gate and made my way round the back. There was a small alley there, and the back door to Karnstein's house was hanging open. I went up the steps and found a body lying almost just inside, but he had no visible signs of having been shot. I bent down to check his pulse - dead. It looked like Raphael might have snapped his neck. I stepped over him and ventured further down the hallway. The house was as silent as a tomb.

It was a little disorientating navigating Karnstein's house from the back, but I got there in the end. There was another man lying in the hallway just before the door to Karnstein's office - the blond one, Quinn, with blood blooming on his white shirt, his eyes glassy and gun still in his hand. I was surprised that Karnstein had kept so few of his thugs here with him. Maybe he had thought of himself as powerful and untouchable, and his arrogance had been his undoing. I pushed open the door to the office. 

Karnstein was on his back on the floor by his desk, like he had stood up when the door to his office had opened. Raphael was a good shot, and this had been at point blank range. Karnstein was very dead. It had been far too easy a death for the likes of him. 

Outside, the rain was starting to fall again, hitting the roof and the windows. Beyond that, there was no other sound - no cars, no sirens, just the rain pattering.

I picked up the telephone on Karnstein's desk and dialed Detective Inspector Garroway's number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't kidding when I said the next chapter was going to be up soon.
> 
> Yes, we're almost at the end of this fic! The plan is to work slowly, case by case, towards the point in the one-shot. So there'll be at least two more fics in this AU from me. Thanks for sticking with me!


	9. Epilogue

 

 

Detective Inspector Garroway was flipping through his never-ending pile of paperwork when I walked into his office. The cigarette in his mouth had become a cylinder of ash that dusted everything with a fine grey powder.

"Lightwood," he greeted me. He sounded like he hadn't slept well in a week, which was probably fair after the trouble I'd given him. "Have a seat." 

He stubbed his old cigarette on the overflowing ashtray and got out a new one. He offered me a cigarette and harrumphed when I declined. 

"Report on the guns found in Karnstein's house matched the slugs found in Elias Smith and Jack Archer. So congratulations - your client is officially in the clear," he said.

I nodded - that was expected. 

"You though - I tried to handle Captain Pangborn, but you know how it is. They don't like private detectives who play murder close to the vest." 

I shrugged. "Like I said - when I got there, the guy was gone. I called you as soon as I'd assessed the situation."

"So all you did was fire some shots from a moving vehicle and not report that, then spent a day foxing around until you landed yourself at the scene of a murder with three stiffs and no murderer." 

"That's all," I agreed. "I was in a pretty tough spot. I guess I did wrong, but I just wanted to protect my client." 

"That kind of thinking is police business, Lightwood. You could have come to us when you knew your client was in trouble. We could have given him protection, gone round to Karnstein with a warrant and gone about this the proper way, with a trial and jury." Garroway took a deep puff on his cigarette. "I know it's been a while since you were a cop, Lightwood, but down here we try to do things the right way. It's not our job to play executioner. Sure, men like Karnstein got it coming, and maybe you'd say he was living on borrowed time. But a life is a life."

"Yes, Sir."

Garroway narrowed his eyes at me. "That notebook, with the names. Where did you get that?"

"Sent to my client in an envelope with no postmark."

"Where's that envelope now?"

"It caught fire."

He snorted in deep disgust. "Look, Lightwood. You and I, we're honest men. Well, as honest as we can be in a world where it's gone out of style," the inspector said with another puff on his cigarette. "You're getting what, thirty dollars a day for this job? And you're willing to put yourself on the line for that?"

"It's not about the money, Inspector," I said. "It's about a good man who made some bad decisions."

He sighed. "Haven't we all heard that story. Alright, I have your statements, at least for the files. You're lucky the witnesses said the other chaps fired first, so you get to keep your detective license. Your client sure has one hell of a lawyer. A little slap on the wrist and you're on your way."

I nodded and he got up from his desk, his large feet shuffling on the bare linoleum that covered his floor.  

"Remember what I said about not being too smart, you hear me? Now get out of here." 

"Yes, Sir." I gave him a small salute as I walked out of his office.

 

I was due at the Black Cat Bar that night. I hadn't seen much of Magnus since the whole case had blown over, and I had been avoiding his calls, but he had a reason to celebrate tonight and I supposed I owed him that much.

I didn't bother with the fancy dinner jacket. This was a business trip.

There was a different hatcheck girl at the entrance, and a different bartender at the bar. I thought about Raphael, and what he'd done to keep his mother and sister safe. I thought Raphael might have loved Lily, though not in the way she had wanted.

I sat at the bar alone until Magnus swept into the room with his usual aplomb. An entourage was already gathering around him. His gaze lighted on me, and it was the most intoxicating feeling - all the beautiful people in the room, but he was walking towards me.  

"I didn't think you were going to come tonight," Magnus said. I shrugged.  

"You kept Raphael out of it?" Magnus asked. I nodded. "Thank you, Alexander. I know you didn't quite agree, but Raphael has his heart in the right place."

"He dislocated your shoulder, Magnus. He had a gun to your head." 

"It's good as new now," Magnus waved a hand dismissively. "Why have you been avoiding my calls?" 

"I can't be friends with you, Magnus," I swallowed thickly. I wished I had ordered a drink after all, to give my hands something to do. 

"I know," he said softly. I looked at him in surprise. "With your brains and my looks, we could go places," Magnus said with a coy smile.  

"Don't sell yourself short - you've certainly got both," I told him. There was an unfamiliar warmth blooming in my chest.  

"Well, Mr Detective, then surely you must admit that you've got both as well." 

One of the wait staff came up to us. "Mr Bane, there's a lady out there who says she wants to talk to you." 

Magnus raised an eyebrow at me. I was already on my feet. 

"I'll walk out with you."

I would have recognised the figure waiting in the lobby anywhere - it was Camille Belcourt. She was dressed in sensible blue slacks with sensible shoes, her hair done up neatly and under some sort of travelling hat. She wasn't looking quite as grey as before, but there was something of deep exhaustion in her face. I lingered in the doorway of the Black Cat, out of her sight. 

"Camille," Magnus greeted her coolly. "You're looking well."  

She tilted her head. "No hard feelings, Magnus?"  

He sighed. "I'm all done with hating you. It's all washed out of me. I hate people hard, but I don't hate them very long."

“I know we can’t go back. I know. Just tell me there’ll never be another like me," Camille whispered. 

“No,” Magnus said. His mouth quirked up at the corners into a wistful smile. “There’ll never be another like you.”

Camille seemed mollified by this. Magnus started to walk away. 

“Magnus,” Camille called.

He turned.

“Thank you for lying to me. You have always been kind. I never have been. That was why we couldn’t be, wasn’t it?”

She set a small box on the low table beside one of the chairs in the hotel lobby. "I'm moving to California."

Magnus nodded to indicate he had heard her, but didn't speak and didn't move towards her. 

Camille shared one last look with Magnus, then turned and walked out of the door. Magnus moved forward to pick up the box she had left and popped it open - the red ruby ring winked up at him.  

I left the alcove of the doorway and walked towards Magnus, my hat and coat already in hand. 

"I should go." 

Magnus looked up at me earnestly. For once, he looked lost for words. "It's not that I don't care about you, Alexander. It's not that I'm not interested," Magnus said gently. "I just need a bit of time." 

"I understand," I looked down at my scuffed shoes. "I've waited my whole life for someone like you, Magnus. I can wait a little while more." 

"Oh, Alexander," Magnus said with a choked sort of laugh. "How is a man supposed to guard his heart when you say things like that?" 

"Why don't you tell me, when you've found out?" I replied.  

We stood there for a moment, a lifetime - then I put my hat on and left. The memory of golden-brown eyes followed me all the way home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be taking a short planning/plotting break for the next installment in this AU - probably a week or so. Come holler at me on tumblr @la-muerta :) Until next time!
> 
> XOXO
> 
> **Update:** The next installment of this fic is up!


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